Of Angels and Volcanoes
by Twist
Summary: When a man like Vetinari dies, there's no way his funeral will be normal. NEW SHORT! The funeral has passed, but angellic encounters still irk Moist.
1. Of Angels and Volcanoes

Of Angels and Volcanoes

By: Twist

A/n: Just a brief short/songfic thing I wrote in my journal a while ago. Written late at night, hence some of the oddness. WARNING: Character death, though I have trouble saying that with a straight face.T because there's some foul language in it and I want to keep my butt covered. Please review; it makes me happy.

Disclaimer: Discworld and its characters are property of Terry Pratchett. 'Volcano' is property of Jimmy Buffett. Twist is not affiliated in any way with either of these men, she just enjoys their creations.

---

It rained the day of the funeral. No one minded. It was actually very appropriate.

Havelock Vetinari was dead, and this time everyone was sure. No one had quite known what to do about the funeral, since no plans had ever been mentioned (he wasn't a man for small talk and anyhow, what kind of small talk _is that_?), so between Lady Sybil and a few of the other nobles who hadn't totally hated him, a satisfactory service was arranged. It was in Small Gods, obviously, and most of the city had managed to turn up, though whether or not this was just to get out of the rain was up for debate.

Moist von Lipwig, freshly elected Patrician, watched with some measure of wonder. It was almost impossible to believe, really, that Vetinari was gone. Here was an individual who had left such a huge impact on the world that _other countries_ used his image on their money. You half expected him to stroll soundlessly up behind you and start a leisurely conversation about the Post Office's most recent failure to stay under budget.

Moist saw Commander Vimes sitting across the aisle. The man looked, overall, bloody furious. Which was appropriate, Moist supposed; Vimes's first reaction to _anything_ was to be bloody furious. Vimes caught Moist staring and glared mightily. Moist hastily leaned back and fixed his gaze straight ahead, to where the priest - one of the Ridcullys, Moist could never keep them straight - was saying something about how maybe he wasn't the most-liked person ever but hey, he wasn't bad, right? I mean, we've seen worse.

Moist avoided looking at the casket. Why there was one, he couldn't guess; it was empty. It was also black and shiny. Moist had the feeling that if Vetinari had seen it, he would have hated it. But no matter, someone along the line had felt it necessary and there it was.

The service was quite short, actually. No one had felt up to delivering any sort of eulogy, which cut about twenty minutes off the total time. So thus it came to the burial, which wasn't really, more of a placing. The casket was placed in the old family crypt by some clerks in dark clothes that no one knew, save Moist. He'd kept them all on because they were smart and knew what they were doing and were, as a group, slightly frightening. He knew their first names, and how to contact them, and nothing else. Vetinari had been quite meticulous about keeping records of some things, and quite vague about others. Moist knew there was a reason, and until he figured it out he was not going to pry.

In due time the tomb was sealed and the whole thing was announced to be over. Most of the crowd left soon after, though some stragglers stayed in the graveyard afterwards, talking about this or that. Moist didn't quite feeling like going back to the Palace and riffling through all of Vetinari's notes; it had started to make his head ache. How any one person could think that way was astounding and horrifying all at once. No wonder the man had never kept anyone very close; they probably would've been driven mad by his constant need to plot. Also, Moist had discovered Vetinari's theory of keeping friends enemies and enemies dead, which sort of explained a lot.

About an hour after the ceremony, the last group of people cleared out. Moist had slunk off to stand under an overhang where at least he could stay dry. He wasn't sure why he had decided to stay here, but he felt distantly that it was a good place to be. He was thinking and staring off into the distance when the dead spoke.

"You could've said something about the casket you know," Vetinari said. Moist almost soiled himself. He wheeled, squeaking slightly. Vetinari was leaning against the doorframe behind him, looking incredibly nonchalant.

"You're dead!" he managed, pointing accusingly. "Four doctors checked this time: they said they were sure!"

"I'm pretty sure myself," Vetinari said coolly. "Dead, however, is not synonymous with gone."

"So what?" Moist's mind was boggling. "You _can't _be a zombie; there's no body left. Anthropomorphic personification?"

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Do you recall the incident in which you were 'brought back to life'?"

"But you said you were dead! You can't be dead and faking dead at the same time!" Moist was nearing hysterical. Vetinari had unnerved the former postmaster while he was _alive_. Coming back from the dead was just plain horrifying.

"You're thinking too directly. Do you recall what I talked to you about when you resumed consciousness? Not the bit about the brooms."

Moist thought for a moment. Then his face took on an expression of horrified realization. "You're joking. This is not happening to me."

"I'm not, and it is." Vetinari allowed himself a small grin. "Tragically, wings and halos are only for official business."

"I knew you weren't human, you bastard!" Moist wheeled once again to see Commander Vimes, huffing furiously around his cigar.

"Where the hell were you?" Moist demanded.

"How nice of you to join us," Vetinari said politely.

"My question is," Vimes snarled, "is how the hell did you get around burning? Did they stake you first?"

Vetinari rolled his eyes, which completely shocked Moist. Dead or not, emotion was not something he had expected Vetinari to show. "Commander, just because someone is immortal and happens to wear black does not mean beyond doubt that they are a vampire. Honestly."

"Well you're damn well not a werewolf! And zombie's bloody impossible . . ." he seemed to think for a moment. "What does that leave?"

"Angels," Moist said despondently. "And demons, but that traditionally involves more horns."

The commander's cigar managed to cling to his lower lip when his mouth dropped open. "Angels?" he managed after some time. "Isn't there usually more . . . niceness involved with that option?"

"A common misconception," Vetinari said gravely. "That's cherubs. Angels are the ones with the swords on fire and whatnot. Smiting."

"Smiting?" Moist's mind tried to get around the idea of Vetinari smiting _anything_ and failed spectacularly.

Vetinari nodded. "I've been smiting for the past thirty-some years. Surely you've noticed."

"_I've_ never noticed a rain of flaming acid, and I'm pretty damn sure I wouldn't've missed that," Vimes growled.

Vetinari actually _sighed_. "So traditional, Commander. Rains of flaming acid were declared out-of-date _ages_ ago. We're much more modern now: flaming swords are optional. Close your mouth, Lipwig, you never know who's watching."

Moist snapped his mouth shut. His brain had pretty much shut down within the past five minutes. He decided that nothing was better than standing by and watching. It was all he was capable of at the moment, really.

"It's all about economics these days," Vetinari was saying. "Why lay waste to a civilization with plagues and that when now all it takes is a decade or so and some careful planning? It's so much _easier_."

"So . . . So you've been this way for a while then?" Moist someone asked weakly. Moist realized it was himself as soon as his brain and his ears managed to catch up with one another.

"Longer than you can possibly imagine," Vetinari said with a slight smirk. "I've just been out on assignment for the past fifty-some years. You can't just crop up out of nowhere, you see? People are much less suspicious if you experience something as mundane as being born."

"So what about me?" Moist asked, realizing that this was probably a very stupid question.

"You?" Vetinari asked. "You were a successor. Everyone needs one, no exceptions."

"But why do it that way?" Moist asked, wondering why he was asking these questions at all to begin with. Vimes was staring. "I mean, you basically brought me back from the dead and -"

"You actually were dead, by the way."

" - Er." Moist's train of thought derailed; finding out that one was dead and then supernaturally brought back to life is always a bit difficult to deal with at first.

"I did it because you were perfect and convenient, and I told you up front because the truth is always easier. Also, I knew you would never take me literally."

"So why are you here?" Vimes demanded. "Obviously not on an assignment, otherwise you'd be in a nappy."

"Very astute, Commander," Vetinari said smoothly. "No, I'm not on an assignment. Merely tying up a few loose ends before going back."

Moist's stomach flipped. Perhaps Vetinari would be doing something with the city; Moist needed all the help he could get. "Making sure the city doesn't go boing?" Moist asked hopefully. His stomach sank a bit when Vetinari snorted.

"Definitely not," the angel said. "I'm getting out of here before you have a chance to fiddle with everything, Lipwig."

"But I need help," Moist whined. His brain had stopped working and whining was now an acceptable option. Had he been himself, he would have been appalled.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow, and then nodded imperceptibly. "Advice, then. The city is a volcano, Lipwig. You can't put brakes on one of those things, but you can watch for the rumbling. Go in front of the flow, and watch it because it moves deceivingly quickly, and it's so hot it'll kill you in seconds. And always know where you're going to land, because sometimes volcanoes go off without warning."

"Did you just give him advice about Ankh-Morpork using geological terms?" Vimes asked, blowing a smoke ring. Moist was astounded by how calm the man was in this situation; it was almost as if he had expected it.

"Yes," Vetinari said simply. "And now, gentlemen, I have to be off." Moist opened his mouth to say more but Vetinari had strode out from under the overhang. In a matter of seconds he sprouted a pair of wings, flapped once, and vanished. Moist realized his mouth was open after a bit and closed it.

"He'll be back," Vimes said, glaring at the spot where to former Patrician had vanished. He spared Moist a brief glance. "Watch those volcanoes," he muttered before stepping out into the rain. Moist thought he heard him mutter something along the line of 'metaphorical bastard' as he walked off.

The Patrician stayed in the graveyard for a few hours more before returning to the Palace. His mind was racing, but somehow he felt a bit more certain. He no longer was afraid of the clerks, and of the city, and how it functioned. It was unpredictable, yes, but the clerks were a sort of Richter scale; they measured the activity and Moist never knew about any of it unless it caused an unusual blip in the thin black line. It was calming, actually, to think about it that way. All you had to worry about, Moist realized, was where you'd land if it all went boom. He could do that.

And so it was with new peace of mind that Lord von Lipwig went back to work that night, sorting through old notes and reports and seeing precedents, creating patterns and monitoring the black line.

---

Far away, on a beach with a smoking mountain in the background, Time sipped his fruity drink. It had an umbrella in it. "Wasn't that a bit cruel of you?" he asked after a bit of thoughtful staring at the ocean.

Under the dark glasses, than angel cracked an eye. "What on the Disc are you talking about?"

"You let the poor thing think the city is like a volcano," Time said reproachfully. "That's a but inaccurate, isn't it?"

"Of course," the angel said, resuming nap position. "Ankh-Morpork is far less predictable than a volcano."

"But Ankh-Morpork doesn't randomly quake violently and burst into flames!"

"Only on a metaphorical level," the angel conceded. "But only because no one's figured out how to make it do that for real yet."

Time sighed. "I don't think it's as chaotic as you say it is. Doesn't seem that way, at least."

"Then I'm very good at my job," the angel said. "Now leave me alone; I haven't slept properly in _ages_."

_Now, I don't know, I don't know, _

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_Let me say it now,_

_I don't know, I don't know,_

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_Ground, she movin' under me._

_Tidal waves out on the sea._

_Sulphur smoke up in the sky._

_Pretty soon we learn to fly_

_Let me hear you, now_

_I don't know, I don't know _

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_Now, my girl quickly say to me,_

_"Mon you better watch your feet."_

_Lava come down soft and hot._

_"You better lava me now or lava me not._

_Let me say it now, I don't know, I don't know_

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_Mr. Utley!_

_No time to count what I'm worth,_

_cause I just left the planet Earth._

_Where I go I hope there's rum!_

_Not to worry, mon soon come._

_Now, I don't know, I don't know _

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_One more now,_

_I don't know, I don't know,_

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_But I don't want to land in New York City,_

_I don't want to land in Mexico._

_I don't want to land on no Three Mile Island;_

_I don't want to see my skin a-glow._

_Don't want to land in Comanche Sky Park,_

_or in Nashville, Tennessee._

_I don't want to land in no San Juan airport or_

_the Yukon Territory._

_Don't want to land no San Diego._

_Don't want to land in no Buzzards Bay._

_I don't want to land on no Ayatolla._

_I got nothin' more to say._

_I don't know, I don't know,_

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._

_Justa one more,_

_I don't know, I don't know,_

_I don't know where I'm a gonna go_

_when the volcano blow._


	2. Angels Make Lousy Cupids

Angels Make Lousy Cupids

By: Twist

A/n: I wrote this on my LiveJournal about a month ago and never really got around to posting it. But anyway, now I have and here it is; the lovely sequel/second chapter to _Of Angels and Volcanoes_. Just so you know, though, this is NOT a work in progress; it's just a couple of shorts I've written that follow the same storyline. So no getting hopeful, because I hate making reviewers cry. :P Also an important note: Havelock, in this fic and in my brain, is Genuan. I mean, his aunt's from Genua, so I'm going with the idea that his whole family is, and he was the kid that went to school in Ankh-Morpork and never really managed to leave. So there.

Disclaimer: Nada es mío. Todo es de Señor Pratchett.

---

Moist was getting used to being Patrician, as much as he hated to admit it. It really wasn't bad, and apparently Ankh-Morpork didn't think he was too bad either. He wasn't mad, he wasn't despotic, and he wasn't a king. As far as the populace was concerned, Moist was perfect.

As far as Moist was concerned, being Patrician was perfect. He was a sociable-type guy, and therefore he didn't mind meeting all the people required him to meet and remember. At the moment, he was working very hard on remembering the figure of the Kythian ambassador's daughter. He was also trying to hold a conversation at the same time. One of the two was suffering, and rest assured it was not the young lady in the sparkling yellow dress.

"What do you think, milord?" someone suddenly asked him out of the blue. Moist looked to the speaker and was slightly furious to find that it was Vimes. Damn the man, he had _known_ the Patrician wasn't paying attention. Moist decided that a very careful diplomatic answer was best, and resumed the necessary look of thoughtfulness prior to making such a remark.

"The principle is sound," Moist said slowly, "but it'll all end in trouble."

"_Exactly_ what I was saying, milord!" the Arch-Chancellor of Unseen University roared, slapping Moist squarely in the middle of the back and knocking the wind out of him. Moist caught Vimes' smirk through the coughing fit and had a momentary pang of anger. He was pretty sure Ridcully (he still didn't know which one was which; after almost a year that was disgraceful) had never slapped Vetinari. Or maybe he had, though if this were true it was a wonder he still had both hands.

Ridcully launched back into his tirade; more confident now that he knew he had the Patrician on his side. Moist once again let his attention wander off to the young lady across the room. Gods, she was beautiful. That dress was barely covering her chest, too . . . Amazing her father had ever let her wear it, conservative old fart that he was. And now she was smiling and laughing, oh dear . . .

"Staring, von Lipwig," said a dry, cool voice off to Moist's right. Moist, caught in a moment of weakness by someone he had never expected to see again in his life, yelped. He became aware that the conversation circle around him was staring at him. The exception was Vimes; the Commander was biting his lower lip, shoulders shaking from silent laughter.

"Are you alright, milord?" Ridcully asked hesitantly.

"Probably best not to blame it on someone eight months dead," said the silky voice over Moist's shoulder.

"Er . . . spider?" Moist said.

"Ah." Ridcully nodded with a slight scowl. "It's more afraid of you than you are of it, you know."

"Probably, probably," Moist said, struggling to recover. He was slowly and horrifyingly becoming aware that quite a lot of people were looking at him strangely. "Just took me by surprise, is all." He tried to look haughty as Ridcully apparently sized him up. Finally the Arch-Chancellor nodded and continued talking about something-or-other. Conversation around them resumed. Moist breathed a sigh of relief, though not too obviously. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered quietly, "I need a bit of fresh air." And with that, he slipped out. He really wished the Commander wouldn't follow him.

"What are you doing here?" Moist howled once he was outside and suitably alone in the University garden.

"Work," Vetinari the angel said, completely deadpan.

"Smiting, are you?" Vimes asked personably, strolling up to the angel and the Patrician. "Should I get my acid-proof umbrella?" Vetinari scowled slightly, but didn't say anything. "Good job making Lipwig scream like a little girl, by the way."

Vetinari nodded solemnly. "I was going to say something about that." He turned to Moist and fixed him with the oldest, most penetrating stare the Postmaster-turned-Patrician had ever faced. "If I ever hear you scream like a little girl again, there will be smiting. I'm not joking."

"Sorry sir," Moist mumbled, unsure of what to say and figuring that he really couldn't go wrong with a respectful apology.

"I thought the spider cover was pretty good, though," Vimes said, pulling out a cigar.

"Still, Lipwig, you screamed. Actually screamed, all high-pitched and girly. Disgraceful. Politicians should never scream," Vetinari scolded.

"Prince Khufurah screamed that one time," Vimes said, staring off into some middle distance. "Remember? All you did was walk into the room."

"I can have that affect on people," Vetinari said with a slight grin.

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't just come up behind me," Moist sulked. "It's not every day that angels wander up behind you at banquets. I wasn't exactly prepared for the event."

"Well then, shame on you," Vimes said dismissively. "What kind of work are you here on, then, if not smiting?" he asked, turning his attention back to Vetinari.

"Oh . . . nothing."

"As if that's not suspicious," Moist grumbled. He pouted when Vetinari glared. Suddenly, a lady's laugh drifted toward the three over a hedge. Moist paled: he knew that laugh. "Oh, no."

"What ever happened to your young lady?" Vimes asked, amused at Moist's obvious infatuation with the girl in the yellow dress who had just turned the corner in the their little alcove.

"Left me for a golem," Moist muttered quickly. "It's not important."

"She left you for a _golem_? You must've been awful."

"He was really depressed," Vetinari said, getting some kind of cruel amusement from Moist's growing panic as the Ambassador's daughter came closer. She was with Lady Sybil, which was a small blessing. The two of them were laughing.

"Oh there you are Sam!" Sybil said, sweeping over to her husband. "Sam, I'd like you to meet Paloma Ortega. Her father is the ambassador from Kythia."

"My pleasure, Young lady," Vimes said gruffly with a nod. The only polite concession he made was removing the cigar from his mouth. Paloma grinned dazzlingly.

"Oh, it es all mine," she said smoothly. "En mis few months en this city, I have heard so much de Usted."

"Charmed," Vimes almost growled. He offered a fleeting grin before replacing his cigar. Sybil glared at her husband quickly, though Moist just barely caught it and Paloma most certainly didn't.

"And who es this?" she asked, turning her attention to Moist, who blushed.

"This is Moist von Lipwig. He's been the Patrician of the city for about eight months now, though more people still talk about his predecessor." Sybil smiled sadly at this.

"Gosh you must be dull," Vetinari said behind Moist. Moist could _hear_ the smirk in the angel's voice.

"Ah, yes, the Genuan," Paloma said, assuming a look of sadness. "Such unfortunate circumstances."

"Yes," Moist said distractedly. Vimes' shoulders were shaking. In the background, known only to Vimes and Moist, Vetinari was complaining bitterly.

"All my last life I try to be as Morporkian as possible, but can I? _No_. I'm always the amazing Genuan alligator-whisperer vampire or something. For gods' sakes people, it's not that difficult."

"Ah, but why linger en el sadness, eh?" Paloma said, face once again erupting into that dazzling smile of hers. "Lordship, it is a pleasure to meet you," she said sweetly.

"And you," Moist stuttered out. He bent and kissed her expertly manicured hand.

"Say something suave," Vetinari muttered.

"That dress looks fantastic," Moist said.

Paloma giggle and raised a gloved hand to her breast. Moist started sweating, imperceptibly. "I will give you el nombre de the seamstress, milord." She stared at Vimes briefly when he started snorting. Sybil hit him discreetly with her fan. "I am thinking that they make clothing for hombres, as well."

"Be charming," Vetinari coached quietly. "She obviously likes you and how advantageous would an ally on the other side of the world be?"

"Fabulous," Moist said. "I fear these clothes are a bit on the worn side." He picked at the fraying sleeves of his black suit. It was the same one he'd had since the beginning of his reign as Postmaster; perhaps it _was_ getting a bit old . . .

Paloma stepped forward and took his ink-stained hand into hers. She scrutinized the cuffs and finally grinned a little. "Oh, but milord, este es nothing a seamstress could not fix." Then she looked straight into his eyes. _Green_, he thought dazedly. _What pretty green eyes she has_. "Perhaps even I could do that," she said softly.

Moist wanted to say something to impress her. His manly side was screaming at him, telling him to say something that would let her know how strong he was. Panicking due to the close contact, he blurted the first thing that crossed his mind. "I want to be your underwear," he said, and immediately regretted it. Damn, his voice had been perfect, but that_ line_ . . . Where had that _come_ from?

Meanwhile, Vimes had had to snatch his cigar from his mouth, lest he inhale it. Sybil looked halfway between shocked and amused, though whether this was because of her husband's outburst or Moist's completely inappropriate line was unclear. Moist looked shamefully to the ground.

"I always knew you were blunt, but that was impressive," Vetinari said. "The total lack of tact, I think, is what got her."

Paloma was looking at Moist with an indiscernible expression. Finally, she grinned. "Lord von Lipwig, you are a very funny hombre," she giggled. "Perhaps you would like to come back inside with me? I am getting a bit chilled."

"Er . . . really?" Moist asked, shocked. "Listen, I'm really sorry if I offended you . . ."

"Not at all!" Paloma said, laughing harder now. "Lordship, I would be _honored_ if you would accompany me inside. Mi papi, I think, would like to speak to you."

"Um, alright," Moist said hesitantly. With that he linked his arm her and led her inside, talking about much more civil things all the way. Sybil, Sam and Vetinari watched them go. Finally, Sybil drew herself up and assumed an expression of utmost disappointment.

"I am almost ashamed for you two," she said. "And don't think I can't see you there, Havelock Vetinari."

"Really? Damn, something must've gone off . . ."

"Egging him on like that," she said, disgusted. "Honestly, it's like you're still teenagers. And you, of all things, should have more sense." Here she glared pointedly at the angel. Vetinari withered under her gaze slightly and shrugged. Sybil let the glare go on a moment more before she relaxed and pulled him into an enormous hug. "It is good to see you're still around, though."

"Likewise," Vetinari said, gingerly patting her on the back.

"What are you here for?" she asked, releasing the former Patrician. "And what, precisely, are you?"

"Angel here on business," he husband said, finally replacing his cigar and blowing smoke out of his nostrils. "Not smiting."

"Well, that certainly does explain a lot," Sybil said calmly. "Will you be here much longer?"

"No, actually," Vetinari said, glancing at a watch with at least nine hands. "I was just about to be going."

"Well, then, we mustn't keep you," Sybil said gracefully. "I assume we'll still be seeing you?"

"Probably, probably," he said with a shrug. "And if not sooner than it's always later."

"Good to know," she said sweetly. "Take care of yourself." Havelock nodded, and Sybil turned to her husband. "Well Sam, I think we'd best go see how Moist and the ambassador are getting, don't you?"

"Oh, I'm sure they're getting on like a casa en fuego," Vimes said with a grin. He turned to follow his wife, waving casually to Vetinari as he walked around the hedge. The angel watched them go, but did not vanish after they were gone. Soon after their departure, there was a small 'pop' to his left.

"Am I late?" the cupid asked frantically. She looked around quickly, and then sagged. "I suppose so."

"Oh, I had you covered," Vetinari said casually, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. There was a slight rustle of feathers and suddenly he had wings. He closed his eyes for a moment, but was forced to look at the cupid when she sighed exasperatedly.

"I just saw everything that happened here," she said sternly, opening her eyes and snapping out of some inner vision. "Let me tell you something: the ends don't justify the means in this business. Obviously that's why angels are left to the smiting."

"Well now that's unfair," Vetinari said, faking hurt feelings. "You were, after all, late. And I was on call. Things happen."

"I'm sure there were other cupids on call who could have taken the case," she harrumphed. "We don't need _angels_. Cherubs, maybe but definitely not angels. You always muck things up. As much tact as an alligator."

"Argh, enough with the alligators," Vetinari moaned. "I need a drink." He raised his wings, flapped once, and was gone.

"Bloody angels," the cupid muttered.


End file.
